Most farewells lack luster

Even Jordan didn't get it right in final hurrah

April 10, 2004|BY DAVID WHITLEY. David Whitley is a columnist for the Orlando Sentinel, a Tribune newspaper.

The perfect Arnie Ending would have been a birdie on Friday's final hole. Or for true perfection, Rae's Creek would have turned into a fountain of youth and Arnold Palmer would have fallen in and emerged Sunday as the winner of his 50th Masters.

If history, boxing and Michael Jordan have taught us anything, however, it's that famous final scenes are rarely perfect.

What Palmer's farewell lacked in drama, it made up for in nostalgia and finality. If nothing else, at least we don't have to worry about Arnie showing up next year in a Washington Wizards uniform.

So what makes a perfect ending, and why are they so hard to find? The star is there, the stage is there, but they rarely align with a final act worth remembering.

It happened July 4, 1939, when Lou Gehrig told a Yankee Stadium crowd he considered himself the luckiest man on the face of the earth. Few remember or even care that Gehrig didn't even play that day.

The speech alone made it a farewell for the ages, but the day also had the necessary elements of a perfect ending. Everybody knew it was the end of a career. And though the disease that took his name was starting to show, nobody felt Gehrig had hung around too long.

You want the athlete to go out on top, or at least not as a sad relic of what he once was. When Willie Mays finally left, most were just relieved he made it off the stage without tripping.

Jim Brown and Barry Sanders could have had great farewells, only nobody knew the endings had arrived. The two great backs essentially ran into the sunset without saying goodbye.

Most great athletes go the other way. Cal Ripken, Julius Erving and Wayne Gretzky enjoyed farewell tours. But the ceremonies blurred into a collage of plaques, speeches and rocking chairs, with no signature moments at the end.

Rarely has an athlete delivered when everybody knows it's the final lap. Secretariat won his last race by seven lengths, only the stage wasn't worthy of the occasion. It was the Canadian International Championship, not the Belmont. And Secretariat did not have much of a farewell speech that day.

The transcendent farewell moment came from Ted Williams in 1960. In the late-September New England gloom, he hit a home run in final at-bat.

Too bad there were only 10,454 fans at Fenway Park that day. Williams didn't tip his cap on the way around the bases, a fitting ending to a contentious career. We usually love to embrace the departing heroes, only it's hard to celebrate when you're not sure it's the end.

John Elway provided a Williams-like performance in his final Super Bowl. But nobody was sure he was walking off the field for good.

Dan Marino deserved the biggest retirement party in south Florida history. Only he announced his retirement at a March press conference. They eventually built a statue of Marino outside Pro Player Park, but seeing the real thing in action one last time would have been nice.

Jordan fashioned the ultimate goodbye when he hit the jumper to beat Utah and win the NBA title. He held up six fingers, one for each championship he brought the Bulls.

It was perfect, only it didn't turn out to be the end. That came last year, though who remembers it? Whatever happened, it didn't quite compare to the sight of Jordan's extended right wrist frozen in time as his final shot won a championship.

Perhaps sports should adopt the F. Scott Fitzgerald Rule and ban second acts in American lives.